I lie frozen on my stomach, blankets tangled around my legs. Snagging my dagger from beneath the pillow, I suck in air, preparing to scream.
“I would not recommend that if I were you.”
The scream finds a premature death. It is an age before the strength to reply returns. “I told you not to show your face again.”
“Is my face displeasing to you?”
Conscious of my bruising, I sit up gingerly. “This has nothing to do with your appearance,” I say, scanning the veiled room, “and everything to do with your character.”
“Can they not be one and the same?”
Zephyrus sounds close, but that can’t be possible. I would have seen him move. As it is, I see nothing in the mottled light and shade, no bodily figure or silhouette.
“I’m aware,” he says solemnly, “that I am unwelcome. But I have come to pay yet another debt.”
I’m so taken aback I wonder if this is a dream. “Another?” My fingers twitch around the hilt of my dagger. In the chilly air, my sweat-pricked skin tingles, my nipples drawn to points beneath my thin nightgown.
The West Wind clears his throat. A floorboard creaks to my right. “You were punished and the fault was mine. I can ease your pain if you will allow it. I can right the wrong I have done.”
Cool air floats across my face. In the darkness, I need not be afraid, not on hallowed ground. “The last time you offered to right a wrong, I was punished. Why should I trust this will be any different?”
The shape of a hand imprints itself on my nape, but when I reach back, nothing is there. “Would you believe that I wish to heal the wounds marring your back?”
My ability to respond fails me. I am frozen, a sculpture crafted from bone.
“You are unsettled,” he says. “You need not be.”
There—something moved in my periphery. I spot a shadowed figure detaching itself from the wall near my dresser. Moonlight transforms his eyes into wells of light.
“Lie down, Brielle.”
A new depth enters his tone, a strange, assertive quality, enthrallingly grounded. I feel a compulsion to obey. My limbs twitch in conflict, to stand and put distance between us, or to rest, ease the pain.Lie down, the West Wind orders. Setting aside my blade, I sink into the mattress with a grateful sigh.
A cork springs free of a glass vial. Moments later, a stringent aroma stings my nostrils.
“What is that?” I whisper into the dark.
“A salve made from pearl blossom.” His voice flows along my skin in pacifying strokes. “Highly effective.” He glides across the room, halting an arm span away.
No wonder it smelled familiar. My fingers curl into the sheet. “My nightgown—”
“You will need to remove it so I can access your back.”
I stiffen. “Who said anything about accessing my back?”
“Canyoureach your wounds?”
His gaze snags mine, bright with intensity. It is easy to overlook the displeasing countenance, the misshapen nose and awkward features, in the presence of those brilliant, crystalline eyes.
And yet, the daring in him. What he asks violates everything I’ve been taught. Purity: our second vow. “The welts will heal, in time.”
“They will scar without the proper treatment.”
“Then I will live with it.”
The West Wind tosses the vial from hand to hand as he gazes out the window. The starlight is so plentiful it appears to have been poured from urns by the Father himself. “You are awfully quick to accept this punishment. Do you know what I see? Lack of sleep. Exhaustion.” He points to my face, tracing the lines of weariness in the air with contempt. “Though I am not surprised, considering how sterile this room is.”
There is nothing wrong with my room. It holds a cot, a desk, a chair, a trunk at the foot of the bed, and a dresser. Why would I need useless trinkets and finery when the Father fills my life?
